


Free Fall

by Brynncognito



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (The Dirty Kind), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Canon-Typical Levels of Alcohol, Come Eating, Crowley Cries During Sex (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has Sensitive Nipples (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Crowley's Tongue (Good Omens), Deepthroating, Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Experienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), Face-Fucking, Facials, First Kiss, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Inexperienced Crowley (Good Omens), Kink Negotiation, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Other, Oysters as Aphrodisiacs, Paddling (Mention), Penis In Vagina Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Exchange, Praise Kink, Safeword Use, Safewords, Spanking (Mention), Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Teasing, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Under-negotiated Kink, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22499347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynncognito/pseuds/Brynncognito
Summary: Crowley knows it's a bad idea to enter into a casual sexual relationship with Aziraphale. Really, he does. But that doesn't stop him from doing it anyway, nor from pining more and more desperately over the centuries as the pair delve deeper and deeper into kink.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 147
Kudos: 516
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, it's here! My entry for the [Good Omens Big Bang](https://goodomensbigbang.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Many thanks to [Jadelyn](https://jadelyn.tumblr.com/) and [Starknight](https://gay-star-knight.tumblr.com/) for the beta read. Art is by [Jack-of-all-Bullshit!](https://jack-of-all-bullshit.tumblr.com/) Absolutely gorgeous header by [](https://cassieoh.tumblr.com/)

Crowley knows it’s a bad idea, before he ever even utters the words. But they’re alone in a cramped private room at Petronius’ new restaurant, and Aziraphale is slurping down oysters with wild, elated abandon (and surely he _knows_ what the Romans use oysters for, there’s no possible way he’d been _tempting_ Crowley to this innocuously). Aziraphale’s eyes have fluttered closed, his lips are slick, and he’s groaning in utter delight, a sound that makes Crowley’s mouth dry and his damnably mortal nether regions stir.  
  
“We should fuck,” Crowley blurts out, apropos of nothing ( _well_ , not nothing, but it’ll at least seem that way to Aziraphale). The angel’s eyes flutter open, and there’s a politely confused frown on his face, brows furrowed, as if he doesn’t quite understand what he’s heard. (Not that Crowley can blame him. He fights back a cringe.)

“I said… we should fuck,” Crowley repeats, and he’s proud of the fact that his voice only wavers slightly. He lifts his chin, setting his jaw stubbornly, the glasses he’s newly adorned as an affectation mercifully partway hiding his eyes from view.  
  
Aziraphale looks cautious but (amazingly enough) thoughtful, almost curious.

“I see,” he responds slowly. He’s frowning now, but still in a thoughtful kind of way. “And what precisely brought this on?” he inquires, ever polite.  
  
“Errrrr... oysters?” Crowley offers helpfully. Aziraphale arches a brow. “They’re… an aphrodisiac?” he tries again, and Aziraphale smirks.

“Yes, well… They’re also delicious,” he remarks primly. Crowley tries not to look crestfallen. He’s pretty sure this is a rejection. Aziraphale reaches across the table to place his hand over Crowley’s, and now he really _does_ cringe, whole body tense for the words to come.

“I’d be delighted to fuck you.”

“.... _Hhhhwha_ ?” Crowley replies brilliantly, and he’s sure he looks _flabbergasted_ but, well, he hadn’t _actually_ expected that to work. (And his two remaining brain cells are now _quite_ preoccupied with the fact that Aziraphale said _fuck_ , and he _specifically_ said _he’d be delighted to fuck Crowley_ , and _does that mean he wants to be the one to do the fucking?_ Crowley’s brain is utterly out to pasture, and the only thing that’s able to draw it back is, thankfully, the one thing that happens.)

With a small, amused smile, Aziraphale leans across the table and kisses him.

Crowley is frozen in shock, only able to draw in a small, startled breath. Aziraphale, unperturbed, takes that as an invitation to slide his tongue into Crowley’s mouth, and _that’s_ what finally snaps him out of it. With a quiet whimper (muffled, and he’d deny ever making the sound if asked), Crowley clutches at Aziraphale’s toga, clinging to him for dear life as he finally kisses him back. Aziraphale makes a small sound of approval (a tiny thing, but it goes _directly_ to Crowley’s cock) and tilts his head just so, flicking his tongue over Crowley’s, which has gone (embarrassingly) forked in his over-eager enthusiasm.  
  
The kiss is over far too quickly, in Crowley’s opinion. It leaves him flushed and tingling with arousal, and Aziraphale looks _awfully_ smug as he brings his goblet to his lips, taking a fortifying sip of wine. Crowley decides that’s a _very_ good idea and downs what remains of his own drink.  
  
“So…” Aziraphale murmurs, breaking the silence after it’s stretched out for a bit longer than is strictly comfortable. “Shall we?”  
  
“ _Yessss_ please,” Crowley hisses, swallowing down his embarrassment over his poorly-controlled sibilance. His face feels hot, and he’s unsteady on his feet when he lurches upright. Aziraphale, _of course_ , looks utterly composed, only the slightest hint of pink to his face suggesting they’d been doing anything untoward. 

Aziraphale moves in close, then, startling Crowley, and grabs his wrist with a gentle-but-firm hold.  
  
“Come,” he says, and Crowley very much plans to. (He also has no choice _but_ to follow.)

\--------------------

Crowley isn’t a virgin, but it’s a pretty near thing. As a demon, he’s certainly used the particular appeal he holds toward humans to his advantage, instilling impure thoughts in others as the urge strikes him. He’s even bedded a few on a whim, men, women, and a handful who were both or neither or somewhere in between. Crowley understands the basics of sex, _almost_ grasps the appeal, and has both fucked and been fucked.

He is in no way prepared for sex with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale is bold and demanding, confident in his own skin in a way that makes Crowley even hotter for him. He’d heard _rumors_ of course, suspected that Aziraphale had been part of a number of orgies-- hardly commonplace in Rome (despite what modern humans would later think), but they happened here and there in backrooms and emperors’ lush dwellings. (And Crowley sincerely hopes Aziraphale hasn’t ever been involved in the depravities at _Caligula’s_ gatherings, which were beyond the pale even for a _demon_.)

Crowley is putty in Aziraphale’s hands, and the blessed angel seems to know it.

“Undress for me, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, when they first return to his quarters, which are fairly sparse, modest, but cluttered with scrolls and books. Crowley can’t help but obey him, though he shivers with nerves as he unfastens the serpent pin at his breast, removing first the wrap of his toga, then the tunic beneath. As they drop to the floor, he’s left bare in every possible way, his throat working double-time to swallow down his anxiety.  
  
“ _Lovely_ ,” Aziraphale breathes, moving in closer, and Crowley makes a small, helpless noise. He’s already hard even before Aziraphale takes him in hand, making his mouth fall open in a gasp. Aziraphale's fist glides upward, making Crowley’s foreskin slide up over his glistening glans in a way that feels absolutely exquisite and squeezes eager precome from the tip. Aziraphale takes the opportunity to slip his thumb inside where Crowley’s foreskin bunches up around the fat head, teasing that so-very sensitive head as well as the velvety skin which encases it. The muscles in Crowley’s abdomen twitch as Aziraphale takes his time simply _exploring_ him, and he takes shallow breaths through his nose while he fights to stand still. Aziraphale hasn’t _told_ him to remain motionless like this, mind, but Crowley is so desperate, so eager to be _good_ that he’s almost petrified by his own desire.

“You’re being so good for me, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs a moment later, confirming Crowley’s suspicions while bolstering his determination, leaving Crowley with an even more iron-clad resolve to be as good as Aziraphale already thinks he is. Aziraphale’s slipped one hand down below the one that’s currently gripping Crowley, gripping his balls and massaging around them in a way that feels _incredible_ (in a way Crowley never even thought to try). His jaw is clenched now, and his abdominal muscles _ache_ with how hard he’s tensed them in his efforts to remain still. And then, just when Crowley’s sure he’s been tested to his limits, Aziraphale drops to his knees.

“You look absolutely delectable,” Aziraphale murmurs, brushing kisses up the length of Crowley’s aching, drooling dick in a way that makes him stifle a whimper. “Can you blame me for wanting a taste?” And with that, his lips wrap around the head of Crowley’s dick. Unthinking, Crowley grabs frantically for Aziraphale’s hair, not to _pull_ or _push_ but just to anchor himself. Aziraphale casts a glance upward, brow arched imperiously despite the fact that he’s kneeling with his lips wrapped around Crowley’s cock, and Crowley gets the hint and lets go with truly monumental effort.  
  
“ _Hngk_ ,” he manages, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his side with the effort of keeping them there, while Aziraphale swirls his tongue around the too-sensitive head of Crowley’s dick and slowly, _slowly_ sinks down. His whole _body_ shakes with how _good_ it feels and how damnably difficult it is not to _touch_ Aziraphale, and after a few more torturous moments he finally gasps out an anguished, “ _Angel._ ”

Aziraphale clearly understands, though he draws off Crowley’s dick with some reluctance, his tongue giving a light flicker of farewell against his frenulum on the way, and Crowley gasps and stumbles backward, collapsing onto Aziraphale’s bed as his knees give out. (He’s not entirely sure the bed had been precisely behind him until that moment, but neither of them mentions the minor miracle involved.)

“ _Christ_ , angel, are you trying to discorporate me?” he hisses, and Aziraphale quirks a small smile in response which is knowing and just a _touch_ smug. Aziraphale’s fingers move toward the angels’ wings pin at his shoulder before he stops and tilts his head in consideration for a moment.

“Undress me,” he says, instead, and Crowley tamps down on his irritation and his urge to complain that he’s _just_ sat down, doesn’t know if he can even make his legs support him right now. But Aziraphale’s looking at him expectantly, and Crowley has always been ( _will_ always be) helpless to deny him anything. He lurches upright again, legs mercifully only a little wobbly beneath him now that Aziraphale’s not actively sucking his cock (and _Satan_ , he can’t think of that right now, if he wants to focus at all on the task at hand). 

Crowley’s hands _definitely_ aren’t shaking as he fumbles the clasp undone, holding it in his hand for a moment as he awkwardly casts about for somewhere to put it before finally miracling it into a pocket dimension out of sheer impatience. Aziraphale makes a small noise at that and remarks, “I sincerely hope I’m going to get that back, Crowley.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley mutters in a feeble attempt to cover his anxiety as he slowly unwraps Aziraphale like a package, lets the soft fabric of his toga fall to the ground before a stern look from Aziraphale makes him sigh and handwave it into a neatly folded pile on the nearby side-table instead. That accomplished, Aziraphale is left bare from the waist down, and the tunic which reaches his upper thighs does little to disguise his own arousal, which tents it obscenely. Crowley _whimpers_ and reaches for it, but Aziraphale stills him with a firm hand on his wrist, even though Crowley’s certain he _also_ wants Crowley touching him. “You aren’t finished yet, Crowley,” he reminds him, and Crowley hisses defiantly, trying to jerk away from that grip, which only tightens in response. Aziraphale just _looks_ at him, steady and uncompromising, and Crowley finally sighs and yields, which earns him a small smile. “ _Good boy_.” 

Oh. _Oh._ Those two words _do_ something to Crowley, make him flush with warmth, tingling and _elated_ and almost-tearful. Thankfully, his serpent eyes aren’t much prone to crying, and he’s able to blink the sensation away without much hassle. Aziraphale watches him knowingly as Crowley has his moment, and Crowley abruptly realizes he might just be in over his head. (As if that would stop him, has really _ever_ stopped him before.)

Crowley’s hands are most definitely shaking now, no denying it, as he carefully lifts Aziraphale’s tunic up over his head. He hesitates for but a scant second before folding it carefully by hand and setting it over with Aziraphale’s toga, his nerves strung so tight right now he’s not sure he could manage another demonic miracle, however trivial. It has the added benefit of giving him a precious few extra seconds to steel himself before finally turning to face Aziraphale. That short length of time isn’t nearly enough, however, because the sight before him still nearly does him in-- Aziraphale all erect and _brazenly_ bare.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Crowley manages, and Aziraphale simply looks _amused_ , as if he’s perfectly aware of what effect he was going to have on the demon when he dragged him back to his quarters. (He probably is, the _bastard_. Crowley’s heart swells with something he refuses to acknowledge, let alone _define_.)

“Come here, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, when Crowley’s become so riveted by the sight of naked, _aroused_ Aziraphale that his feet have become positively glued to the floor. He gives himself a small shake, manages to shrug off the _intoxicating_ effect the angel is having on him (or is it the oysters, however few he personally consumed?) and shuffles in closer, wobbly and uncertain.  
  
Luckily enough, Aziraphale has no issue continuing to take charge, and he reaches for Crowley as soon as he’s close enough, a warm hand on either hip pulling Crowley in even closer, until their bodies brush against one another. Crowley’s cock grazes against Aziraphale’s hip, making Crowley suck in his breath sharply, and Aziraphale’s own is warm and solid against Crowley’s thigh. 

And then, _oh_ , Aziraphale draws him into a kiss, and Crowley realizes the kiss they’d shared at the restaurant was _nothing_ in comparison, a mere appetizer before the five-course meal Aziraphale plans to make of him. He moans into Aziraphale’s mouth, hot and eager, and when Crowley winds his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, Aziraphale allows the show of desperation. Crowley’s kissed before, certainly, but _never_ like this, never with such wanton abandon. His nerves _sizzle_ as their tongues tangle, Aziraphale claiming Crowley’s mouth (and the rest of him, _all of him_ ) as his. When Aziraphale finally draws back, teeth catching Crowley’s lower lip in a way that makes him _groan_ , his lovely blue eyes are dilated, his face visibly flushed. He’s still much more composed than Crowley, but he looks positively _indecent_ for an angel, and Crowley quivers at the sight. 

“You’re doing wonderful, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs then, because of _course_ he’s realized how hungry Crowley is for praise. He only barely swallows the whine that threatens to escape his throat. A quirk of the lips, as if Aziraphale knows _precisely_ the sort of sound he’d stifled (he probably does), and Aziraphale nods back toward the bed. “You may sit.” 

Crowley obeys instantly. (Was the mattress as soft and feather-stuffed before? He suspects Aziraphale’s just miracled his bed nicer for the occasion, which does something complicated to his insides.) It’s well worth complying when Aziraphale steps in closer, his hard, _thick_ cock nearly at eye-level thanks to how low to the ground his bed is. Crowley doesn’t need instructions for what comes next. As Aziraphale winds his fingers into Crowley’s perfectly-coifed curls, surely mussing them in the process (and Crowley can’t bring himself to care, it feels _so good_ to have Aziraphale’s hand there), Crowley parts his lips and takes Aziraphale into his mouth.

Aziraphale’s isn’t the first cock Crowley’s had in his mouth, but it’s by far the _nicest_. His eyes flutter closed involuntarily at the first bitter-salt taste of precome on his tongue, and he suckles gently at first, simply savoring Aziraphale’s unique flavor. He tastes faintly of the oysters they’d shared, but with something _sweeter_ beneath that Crowley’s certain is either angelic or uniquely Aziraphale. He tastes like _Heaven_ , or at least like the sort of Heaven humans imagine and not the Heaven Crowley remembers. 

Crowley could suck Aziraphale’s cock for _days_ and never grow tired of it (provided he can remind his body that it’s _not_ human and his jaw does _not_ need to cramp, thank you very much). He then realizes there’s nothing stopping him from sorting things out _right now_ and does exactly that, subtly unhinging his jaw in the process. It’s _very much_ worth it for the startled curse which Aziraphale lets out, trailing off into a throaty groan of approval (and Crowley realizes he _may_ just have a kink for making the angel curse). Crowley takes him deep, no gag reflex to speak of, which allows him to easily swallow around the blunt head of Aziraphale’s cock, making those fingers tangled in his auburn curls grip all the tighter. His tongue works the underside of Aziraphale’s cock, still forked and agile, flickering in a way he’s sure must be almost ticklish, but which Aziraphale clearly appreciates.  
  
He doesn’t get too far along in his worship of Aziraphale’s lovely, _fat_ cock, however, before Aziraphale takes charge once more. Using Crowley’s hair as an anchor, he pulls out most of the way so he can watch his glistening cockhead rub all over Crowley’s swollen, spit-slick lips. Crowley’s eyes are half-lidded with pleasure, and he’s not even _minding_ for the moment that his own cock’s going half-soft with neglect between his thighs. He’s sure this is only the beginning, after all, and Aziraphale will reward him for his service later (and that thought, _reward_ , is enough to make his cock jerk back to full attention all on its own). Aziraphale murmurs sweet, sweet praise, music to Crowley’s ears to match the honey on his lips, and Crowley shivers, half-drunk with desire as Aziraphale paints his lips and tongue with the evidence of his own arousal.  
  
Crowley gazes up at him with what he’s sure is naked desire (and hopes isn’t anything more, isn’t those damnable, unspoken _feelings_ he’s felt growing inside him like poison), and Aziraphale coos down at him, running fingers through Crowley’s hair as he presses inside once more. Crowley takes him, easily and eagerly, and it soon becomes clear to Aziraphale that Crowley really _doesn’t_ have a gag reflex. Aziraphale breathes a bit more heavily, his brow visibly glistening with sweat, his chest and _lovely_ , soft stomach heaving as he thrusts in a bit harder, a bit rougher. Crowley takes it, takes _all_ of it, and moans for more.

“Look at you,” Aziraphale murmurs, voice just a little lower, a little _rougher_ (and _Crowley’s_ done that to him, _fuck_ , the thought is dizzying, much more so than his current lack of oxygen, unnecessary as it is). “You’re so eager for my cock, aren’t you darling? So eager to let me take my pleasure from your body, however I want.” He’s _right_ , of course he is, so much so that Crowley can’t help but groan around Aziraphale’s cock, forked tongue working desperately over him as Aziraphale withdraws partway again before thrusting balls-deep back into his throat.  
  
The lewd, wet sounds of Aziraphale fucking his mouth and throat fill the room between gasps and groans and Aziraphale’s low encouragement, as he works up to a steady, almost _punishing_ pace. Crowley’s fingers eventually inch their way across his lap, towards his neglected cock, but a warning sound from Aziraphale stills him almost immediately. He’s left clenching his hands into tight fists to fight the urge to touch (Aziraphale, himself, _anything_ ), while Aziraphale takes his pleasure. Crowley gives him as much of himself as he’s able to, jaw unhinged and relaxed, throat constricting around the head of Aziraphale’s cock every time he pauses, buried to the hilt inside him. But mostly, Crowley just _lets_ Aziraphale have his wicked, wicked way with him while he clings to the last remaining shreds of his already tattered self-control, trying to avoid touching himself.

When Aziraphale’s hips begin to stutter, warning of his impending release, Crowley pulls back just a little (not easy, with the death-grip Aziraphale has on his hair), lips parted and tongue out. Aziraphale swears softly, clearly understanding his intention, and he takes himself firmly in hand to finish himself off with a few swift strokes of his ( _beautiful_ , so beautiful) cock. Crowley’s eyes flutter closed when Aziraphale finally spills over, coating his eyelashes, his cheeks, his lips, his _tongue_ with Aziraphale’s heavenly essence. His _groan_ echoes Aziraphale’s, his still-forked tongue flicking over the head of Aziraphale’s cock, claiming every drop of his seed directly from the source before curling around it and coaxing out just a little more. Only then does he bother trying to collect some of the mess from where it’s striped across his face. Aziraphale finally relaxes his hand’s grip in Crowley’s hair, then, instead running his fingers through the errant curls in what seems to be warm affection. (And Crowley _won’t_ look too closely at that, can’t dare himself to _hope_. This is clearly the after-effect of a particularly nice orgasm, nothing more.)  
  
Even with the reach of his incredibly long, agile serpent’s tongue, Crowley knows he’s an absolute _mess,_ but by unspoken mutual agreement neither of them miracle the rapidly congealing come away. Aziraphale _does_ , however, miracle a damp cloth into existence and wipes Crowley’s face clean the old-fashioned way. (This does little to quell the desperate _longing_ that’s taken hold somewhere beneath Crowley’s breastbone. He tells himself firmly that it’s lust, even though it’s in entirely the wrong area.)

“Now, I think you deserve a reward for being such a very good boy for me,” Aziraphale finally murmurs, once he’s smoothed away the evidence of his own release. Crowley swallows convulsively, tongue still coated in the taste of _Aziraphale_ , and Aziraphale smiles, making that _something_ in his chest spasm painfully. “Lie down for me, darling,” he murmurs, and that’s easy enough to obey, so he does.

Now that he’s gotten Aziraphale off and has his _full_ attention, Crowley feels almost self-conscious all over again, too aware of the sprawl of his lanky limbs and the way his erection has subsided slightly again due to lack of stimulation. Mercifully, Aziraphale doesn’t seem overly bothered or offended by the latter but just takes him in hand, his palm miraculously slick with what smells like olive oil. Crowley hisses in pleasure as Aziraphale strokes him leisurely back to full hardness, occasionally pressing a kiss to the exposed head of his cock when his fist draws back his foreskin on the downstroke.  
  
“What do you want, darling?” Aziraphale asks, almost conversationally. The words are murmured into Crowley’s inner thigh, which he’s very _distractingly_ kissing.  
  
“ _Hnnnhh?_ ” Crowley replies, brain short-circuiting as he focuses on the feather-soft brush of lips against his sensitive skin rather than forcing his thoroughly scattered wits back together. Aziraphale lets out a small puff of laughter, ticklish and even _worse_ for Crowley’s rapidly unraveling attention span. (Does he actually expect a reply? More importantly, what _does_ Crowley want? That’s a heavy, _loaded_ question if he ever heard one, and he’s not sure he’d trust himself to respond even if Aziraphale _wasn’t_ nuzzling Crowley’s thigh and looking up at him like that.) Crowley stammers and stutters enough that Aziraphale finally lets out another soft huff of laughter and gives a little kiss to the crease where Crowley’s thigh meets his groin, an area he’d never _quite_ considered erogenous, though in hindsight it seems obvious.  
  
“I think I have just the thing,” Aziraphale remarks, letting Crowley off the hook (thank _fuck_ , Crowley thinks with relief so profound it leaves him almost dizzy). Then he _almost_ regrets letting Aziraphale decide when Aziraphale nudges a miraculously slick finger against his entrance, making him jerk with surprise and the urge to scramble away from the contact. “ _Easy_ , love,” Aziraphale murmurs, leaning down to almost nuzzle into Crowley’s cock. It’s somehow soothing and _erotic_ at the same time. Aziraphale glances up to his face, though, before he tries touching Crowley _there_ again, and Crowley’s heart clenches painfully at the way he’s so obviously looking for a sign that it’s _okay_ for him to proceed. Crowley swallows hard and gives a single quick, jerky nod of his head.  
  
This time, it’s a little less startling. Crowley’s been touched there before, of course, he’s not a _prude_ , but it’s been quite a while (centuries, he thinks), and it hadn’t done much for him at the time despite his partner clearly enjoying himself. Now, Crowley thinks the fact that he hadn’t enjoyed was more because of who he’d doing it _with_ (or rather, who he _hadn’t_ been doing it with, a thought his mind skitters sharply away from, not wanting to examining it too closely).  
  
Crowley takes in a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves as best he can while Aziraphale gently, _patiently_ strokes his finger over Crowley’s tight entrance, coaxing him to relax just a little. It helps that Aziraphale’s other hand is still quite occupied with slowly stroking Crowley, just enough to keep him interested without getting him anywhere near needing to come. His cock occasionally gives a dull throb, but the ache of his arousal is an almost pleasant thing, like pressing against a bruise or a knot of tension he hadn’t quite realized was there. Crowley takes in another slightly shaky but fortifying breath, and when he exhales, Aziraphale finally presses just a little more firmly. The very tip of his finger slips inside, making Crowley’s breathing stutter on its way out with the tiniest hint of a _squeak_ (though he’d deny it until blue in the face).

“ _Fuck._ ” Now, _that_ Crowley _wouldn’t_ deny, because what else can he do except swear when Aziraphale’s slipping inside him? It’s intimate, _scorchingly hot_ , and almost too much, and they’ve barely even gotten started. Aziraphale seems to realize as much, because he’s released Crowley’s cock from his grasp and settled a hand on his stomach instead, where Crowley’s abdominal muscles are twitching and spasming with how overwhelmed he is.  
  
“ _Shhhh_ ,” Aziraphale soothes him, rubbing a thumb over his lower belly, just above where the sparse trail of hair beneath his belly button gives way to the fuller spread down below. Crowley manages to breathe in, then out, and by the time he’s completed that a few more times he feels less ready to crawl out of his skin. More importantly, Aziraphale is able to sink his finger just a little bit deeper, earning a small sound of pleasure that escapes Crowley’s lips almost unbidden. “Good?” Aziraphale asks, unnecessarily, and Crowley bites down hard on his lower lip as he nods enthusiastically. 

Things keep going slowly for a few more minutes, until Aziraphale manages to get his finger deep enough inside Crowley that when he crooks his finger, he _just_ manages to brush against Crowley’s prostate. (And _oh_ , Crowley had _forgotten_ about that part of the nearly-human body he inhabits, the one thing that had made this tolerable the last time he’d been fucked.) Crowley _keens_ , giving an embarrassingly high-pitched sound as his hips lift at the contact, encouraging but also unsure if he can handle more of it.  
  
“ _That’s it_ , darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, thumb eventually abandoning its soothing movements along Crowley’s lower stomach in favor of Aziraphale grasping Crowley’s cock once more, stroking him leisurely enough to keep him _in the moment_ and enjoying himself. (And although Crowley thinks he’d still be _enjoying_ himself even if he only had Aziraphale’s finger inside him, he’s not going to complain, especially when Aziraphale wraps his lips around the leaking head of Crowley’s cock and suckles.)

Crowley’s head falls back and his back _arches_ , breathing and heart rate ramping up at _least_ three or four notches as Aziraphale gently blows him and fingers him open. Crowley isn’t quite sure if this is the prelude to something more, or if Aziraphale’s planning on getting him off just like this. He goes so far as to open his mouth to inquire before Aziraphale takes him down to the root unexpectedly, scattering his thoughts like so many leaves on the wind. From that point, all he can do is hang on for dear life as Aziraphale relentlessly strokes a finger over that sensitive gland inside him, even adding a second finger that makes Crowley let out a few more choice swears between clenched teeth. When he comes, it’s with his hips lifting off the bed and his cock buried in the heat of Aziraphale’s mouth, while Aziraphale hums and _strokes_ and suckles him through it.

Crowley’s left a bit dazed, all things considered. And, he notices, Aziraphale hasn’t withdrawn his fingers from inside Crowley, though he has let his softening prick slip free from his lips, a loss and a blessing all at once, given his post-orgasmic sensitivity. Crowley simply lies back for a few moments, breathing heavily and waiting for the stars to clear from his vision.

“ _Satan’s_ sake, you’re good at that,” Crowley can’t help but mumble, his brains quite thoroughly scrambled. Aziraphale laughs and presses a soft kiss to Crowley’s thigh, making that _ache_ in Crowley’s chest intensify (though he stubbornly and determinedly classifies it as a side-effect of his incredible orgasm).  
  
“Well, I have had a bit of practice,” Aziraphale offers modestly, and Crowley’s heart seizes in an entirely new and _painful_ way, cracking down the middle almost audibly. Suddenly, he thinks this was an absolutely _terrible_ idea. He practically _shoves_ Aziraphale out of the way, ignoring the angel’s startled query. Crowley doesn’t even bother fully redressing, just shoves his tunic down over his head and flips his toga over his shoulder haphazardly, shoving his feet into his sandals as he does.

“I have to-- I have to _go_ , this was a mistake, angel, I shouldn’t--” And Crowley is _gone_ , practically bolting out the door while Aziraphale shouts his name, sounding alarmed and concerned (and maybe even _hurt_ ). Crowley, _the coward_ , doesn’t even turn to look back, doesn’t _acknowledge_ that Aziraphale is _shouting after him_. He just leaves the remnants of his heart lying there on Aziraphale’s bed and _runs_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries to cope (very poorly) with how he reacted to his first time with Aziraphale.

Crowley doesn’t precisely _avoid_ Aziraphale for the next few centuries, but he certainly doesn’t make a concerted effort to seek him out, either. He tells himself it’s because they’re _enemies_ , they shouldn’t be seen together, he’s _busy_ (lies, all lies, but when you repeat them to yourself often enough, you almost begin to believe them). 

Unfortunately, Crowley’s assignments from Hell inevitably keep him firmly located in Rome. (He tells himself it’s annoying only because he’s _restless_ and ready to move on to other empires. This is, of course, another lie.) The Roman Empire is big enough, thankfully, and Crowley wiley enough that he’s able to avoid crossing paths with Aziraphale save for a few brief, awkward, stilted conversations at dinner parties, at the theatre, and even (on one _particularly_ awkward occasion), at the bathhouse. Aziraphale is polite enough but rather distant, and Crowley’s only half-heartedly trying to keep their newly formed relationship afloat. 

Crowley’s yet to recover his fractured heart, and his chest aches with the dull throb of its absence. Being around Aziraphale makes it both better and worse, so he decides it’s best to avoid him altogether. (Or rather, he convinces himself he should avoid Aziraphale for other, _less emotional_ reasons, but it’s all the same in the end.)

Later, Rome falls. More precisely, it’s set under siege, pillaged, plundered, and burned. It’s all Crowley can do not to tear through the streets as buildings crumble and soldiers slay peasants in the streets. He can hardly push down the aching need to be running and searching and _shouting_ Aziraphale’s name the way the angel shouted his that fateful night. He manages to suppress the urge, just barely, but he does pay quite a few soot- and blood-streaked messengers to search high and low for any sign of Aziraphale. It’s unlikely he’d be _killed_ , for this is purely a war of human making, but even the thought of Aziraphale being _discorporated_ makes the black hole in his chest collapse inward on itself further. 

It’s very nearly a miracle that he finds out Aziraphale is safe, that he managed to get out just in time. (And it was a near thing, his sources tell him, because of _course_ Aziraphale had so very many precious texts he wished to save, and of _course_ he did everything he could to help save even more precious lives until it became clear that saving Rome was beyond even him).  
  
The insula where he and Aziraphale had explored the pleasures of the flesh together is long gone, and Crowley tries not to think about _why_ that hits him like a punch to the gut. It’s enough that Aziraphale got out safely. 

\--------------------

When they actually, properly cross paths again it’s in the Kingdom of Wessex in 537 AD, well over a century after the sacking of Rome by the Visigoths and precisely 496 years since their ill-fated roll in the sack (not that Crowley’s counting, mind). Crowley’s been terrorizing the land as the Black Knight, taking an unusual amount of savage glee in the part. And while his glossy black armor is _sweaty_ and _hot_ , it at least has the benefit of keeping him properly closed off from the world.

It still isn’t enough to shield him from Aziraphale, when they inevitably meet (and really, he should have _known_ Aziraphale would be mixed up with King Arthur’s lot, _stupid_ demon, he should have _thought this through_ better). They meet in the foggy glen, and Crowley pronounces that it’s _all right, lads, he’s with me_.

Later, they meet up for a drink, because it’s been long enough that Crowley fears his avoidance of Aziraphale has become _painfully_ obvious. Alehouses haven’t been invented yet, and the landscape is a bit of a mess post-Roman rule, the Anglo-Saxons just starting to really move into the place. Crowley’s home (if it can be called such) is a simple affair, timber and thatch like most of the scattered buildings in the small village where he’s established himself. It’s downright _archaic_ compared to the lovely columns and arches of Rome (which he recalls with a pang not entirely associated with architecture alone). Still, they’ve seen worse, and Crowley’s stored up quite a bit of decent-quality mead.

There’s a single wooden stool in the room, rough-cut next to an equally haphazard table. The fire’s crackling warmly, chasing away the worst of the evening’s chill despite the utterly _nonexistent_ insulation his shack offers, and Crowley’s languid and drowsy in the heat, sprawled out across his simple, straw-stuffed mattress like his body’s forgotten whether it’s liquid or solid. The only reason he doesn’t have _fleas_ is because he refuses to allow their existence.  
  
Aziraphale and Crowley are both quite solidly drunk. Aziraphale is giggly and flushed from either the heat or the drink (or possibly both), and Crowley’s grinning himself, occasionally bringing the jug of mead to his lips to slosh some more inward, inevitably missing his mouth by a bit and having to miracle it back into the jug before he’s successful. He _could_ sit up and make it easier on himself, but he’s warm and _comfortable_ , and something that’s been aching in his chest for a very long time (496 years, to be exact) has finally settled just a bit, the gaping hole still throbbing around the edges but at least filled in at the middle.

“ _We…_ should _fuck_ ,” Crowley pronounces abruptly, gesturing wildly with the hand that holds the clay jug, sloshing a bit out onto his mattress. “Ah, _fuck_ ,” Crowley slurs, gesturing vaguely with his free hand and miracling the mess out. He doesn’t notice at first that Aziraphale has gone very still and silent. He’s also wearing the tell-tale expression of distaste that means he’s just sobered up. Crowley’s a bit too fuzzy-headed to register the silence initially, but he eventually frowns and cranes his neck forward a bit, trying to focus his bleary vision on Aziraphale.

“What? _Whassa matter_?” he mumbles, squinting at Aziraphale, whose hands are folded primly in his lap.  
  
“I think… I think perhaps you should sober up, Crowley,” Aziraphale replies softly.  
  
“What, and waste a perf’cly good insoc-- intox-- intotsicsatio-- _drunk_ I’ve got on?” Crowley demands incredulously. Aziraphale just watches him steadily, silently, and he finally sighs and grimaces, forcing the mead back out of his body, into the (several) receptacles from whence it’d come. “ _Blech_. Always hate that aftertaste,” Crowley mutters, more to himself than anything, before heaving himself to a slightly more upright, less-slouched position. He frowns, trying to sift through his alcohol-tainted memories of the last few moments to figure out why, precisely, Aziraphale had thought they both ought to sober up, when-- “ _Oh._ Right.”

Aziraphale gives a slightly pained smile, and Crowley’s heart sinks. He’s fucked up. They’ve only _just_ gotten back together again, gotten their friendship back on track, and _Crowley’s gone and pissed it all away._ There’s a lump in his throat nearly too large to swallow, a stinging as tears prick the corners of his eyes, but he valiantly forces them both down.  
  
“You _left_ ,” Aziraphale murmurs, and there’s something almost bereft in the way he says it. Crowley winces, tears his gaze away, because he can’t listen to the _sadness_ in Aziraphale’s voice and look him in the eye at the same time.

“Right, it…” And here, Crowley trails off. He doesn’t know how to explain, and he’s certainly not ready to confront this _thing_ he feels for Aziraphale, who’s barely even begun to acknowledge that they aren’t quite enemies after all, that they could even be _allies_.  
  
“ _Listen,_ ” Crowley finally breaks in, after the silence has settled awkwardly between them for so long it’s become unbearable. “Why don’t we just pretend Rome never happened, hm? Give it another go.”

“It?” Aziraphale replies softly, and Crowley winces a little. 

“Well, _us_ , I guess,” he says. “I mean, not _us_ as in-- I just mean-- _Friends_ , we can be friends, can’t we?” he finally finishes desperately, clinging to his last life preserver in a sea of doubt.  
  
Aziraphale is quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. But finally, he gives a simple nod.

“Friends,” he echoes, and Crowley pretends he isn’t disappointed.

\--------------------

They cross paths on a much more regular basis after that. Of course, being immortal beings, ‘regular’ for them implies something more along the lines of ‘every half or full century or somewhere thereabouts,’ as they don’t exactly set a precise schedule. Each of them still reports to their respective home offices, after all, and they have to keep up appearances (namely, that they aren’t consorting with the _enemy_ ).

The first time they meet after the awkward encounter in Wessex is in China during the Tang Dynasty. More specifically, they meet during some of the first of Japan’s missions to China **.** Crowley suspects Aziraphale is there for the poetry and is hoping to collect scrolls, both those which are already priceless artifacts and those which someday will be. Crowley isn’t actually doing anything in particular, just stirring up general discord and doing his best to sidetrack Japan’s cultural inquiries while causing a bit of extra mischief on the side.

They drink _mijiu_ and eat spiced, flavorful, stir-fried meats and vegetables over rice (or at least Aziraphale does), and it isn’t quite _comfortable_ yet, but it is noticeably less awkward than before. Aziraphale speaks deplorable Middle Chinese, so Crowley’s left to do all the ordering for them at the cozy little restaurant where they order food and drink, and where they dine and talk late into the evening. Crowley can’t remember half of what they talk about, but he remembers laughing a lot. Later, Crowley claims credit for the rise and subsequent reign of Wu Zetian, though in reality he’d been far too entranced by the way Aziraphale looked in the circular-collared robes of the era to do much political finagling. (It hadn’t helped that commoners were only permitted to wear white, a color that had always suited Aziraphale, and the robes they wore were almost _scandalously_ short, ending just below mid-thigh. Crowley spent years afterwards fantasizing about Aziraphale in nothing _but_ his robe, divested of the layers beneath which kept him decent enough for respectable company.)

After China is Constantinople. Crowley reminisces with Aziraphale about the ways the architecture both harkens back to the former Roman Empire and incorporates the influence of other, familiar empires back east. Neither of them mentions their meeting in Rome, the night with the oysters. As Crowley has asked, they both pretend it never happened (it’s both painful and a _relief_ ). They eat and drink (or rather, Aziraphale eats and they both drink).  
  
The subsequent 1,000-odd years consist of the pair of them steadily drifting closer into each other’s orbit. By 1020 AD, they’ve even agreed upon an Arrangement. (And if it’s not the kind of arrangement Crowley longs for, he firmly shoves his disappointment aside.) Aziraphale doesn’t quite _acknowledge_ their Arrangement, let alone their friendship, but it’s fine. Crowley’s a big boy. He can manage.

And then, they meet at the Globe Theatre in 1601 for a showing of _Hamlet_ , and it all goes to hell in a hand basket.

\--------------------

Aziraphale and Crowley are drinking, like always. They’re back at Crowley’s place, a cozy little black-and-white timbered thing. It’s a bit posh on the inside, nothing quite as ostentatious as what the nobility have got, but it suits Crowley all the same-- especially because it has _actual_ glass windows, which Crowley would have tried to claim as his doing if they weren’t so bloody _nice._ (Like most of history’s wonderful inventions, they are of neither Heavenly nor Hellish design but purely human.)

Crowley isn’t quite _sloshed_ yet, but he’s got a nice little buzz going, dulling the edges of his senses and making everything just a bit warm and fuzzy. Judging by the flush on Aziraphale’s cheeks, he’s in about the same state. In fact, he’s _certain_ Aziraphale’s rather tipsy based on the next words that leave the angel’s mouth.

“I’ve been… _considering_ ,” Aziraphale begins with all the slow deliberation of one trying not to slur. Crowley’s _just_ inebriated enough his heart doesn’t _quite_ lurch with some painful combination of hope and anxiety, but it’s a pretty near thing. It doesn’t help that Aziraphale zones out a bit, brow pinched like he’s a bit lost in his own thoughts.  
  
“ _Oi!_ You were _considering_ …?” Crowley prompts, because he’s pretty sure Aziraphale is trying to discorporate him, maybe even _kill_ him with the anticipation. Aziraphale blinks, then brightens.

“Oh! I was thinking we really ought to try chocolate sometime. It’s the new thing, you know. I’ve just been to Spain, and I heard _rumors_ that the nobility have been keeping it under wraps for _years.._ .” 

Crowley’s traitorous heart plummets, the taste of disappointment bitter in his mouth. Hope is such a fickle, hateful thing, and Crowley fights to keep his expression neutral as he takes another swig from the bottle of wine he’s been nursing.  
  
“Oh, and I suppose we ought to give fornication another go.”  
  
Crowley spits out his wine. Aziraphale, mercifully, either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, and Crowley manages to discreetly miracle the mess back into the bottle before taking another, more cautious, sip.  
  
“ _Right._ Well, uh-- That’d… I mean, that’s-- We could-- _Hngk_ , sure!” Crowley babbles before finishing up with an overly bright tone, clamping his mouth shut when he’s finished because he’s already embarrassed himself enough.  
  
Aziraphale looks thoughtful. Crowley flushes hotly, filthy images dancing through his mind as he imagines whatever it is Aziraphale might want to start with. Kissing, of course, but blowjobs? Handjobs? Oh _Satan_ , does he want to fuck Crowley?  
  
“I’ll admit I’m dreadfully curious whether it’s as good as they say it is.”  
  
“ _Hnnnhhh?_ ” Crowley manages. Oh _fuck_ , he’s sure Aziraphale’s heard of something _really_ filthy, something delightfully kinky, Crowley just knows it.

“I know I could simply _miracle_ a taste, but it’s _really_ just not the same, none of it is…”

He wants to _taste_ Crowley? _Satan_ , of course he does. Crowley whimpers and squeezes his thighs together, his erection trapped between them and aching, _throbbing_ with every lurid image which plays out behind his eyes.

“You could-- You could have a taste right now,” Crowley croaks. Aziraphale tilts his head and looks thoughtful at that, frowning.  
  
“Yes, I suppose I could, but in the _middle of the night_? I’m not sure where we’d even find any, and I don’t think it would be particularly _angelic_ of me to break in somewhere and steal it…”

Crowley squints, still-sluggish brain a bit too addled by alcohol and lust to put two and two together and get anything less than 69. “ _What?_ ”  
  
“Well, _you’re_ the one who suggested we just pop right over to Spain right this instant to get some chocolate, Crowley,” Aziraphale responds a bit snippily, even slurred as his words still are.  
  
Crowley blinks. “.... _Spain_. _Chocolate_ , right,” he manages with a slightly pained smile, pressing his thighs just a bit more firmly together.  
  
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing to it but to wait until tomorrow,” Aziraphale finally sighs, taking another swig from his own bottle of wine before pausing and grimacing. “We really ought to do this properly, hm? No alcohol in our corporations.”  
  
“Do what? Go to _Spain_?”

“No, _fuck_ , Crowley. Do try to keep up.”  
  
It takes a solid five to ten seconds before Crowley’s brain realizes that Aziraphale isn’t just cursing at him (and he supposes Aziraphale has a point about the sobering up).  
  
“Right,” he most definitely doesn’t squeak.

This, too, Aziraphale _blessedly_ doesn’t seem to notice, because he’s too busy concentrating on sobering up himself. Crowley does the same, then _immediately_ regrets it as his heart leaps into his throat with anxiety. He’s about to work himself up to a proper panic when Aziraphale turns his gaze on him, a _soft_ smile on his lips, and gets up to move into Crowley’s space.  
  
“Now, then, how would you like me?” Aziraphale asks, too casually, and _surely_ he doesn’t expect _Crowley_ to make decisions, to take charge. He’s hardly even _wanked_ since their time in Rome (and okay, that’s a lie, he’s actually wanked quite a _lot_ imagining and remembering that night). Aziraphale gives a soft snort of laughter as Crowley freezes with indecision and simply runs his fingers down Crowley’s cheek before he leans in and kisses him softly.

It’s as good as he remembers. It’s painfully incandescent. It’s too much, and he desperately wants more.  
  
Crowley groans and surges forward against him, tangling his fingers in his doublet and holding on for dear life. He hisses his _fury_ as he bites savagely at Aziraphale’s lips, punishing him for making him wait 1,200 years to experience this again. Aziraphale makes a small noise in response, presses in closer and straddles Crowley. And that’s good, that’s _perfect_ , because now Aziraphale’s lovely, plush rump is settled directly atop Crowley’s aching prick, still trapped in too many layers of stockings and breeches. He’s desperately glad he hadn’t opted for the codpiece he’d been tempted to wear to the theatre like the peacock he is.   
  
When Aziraphale withdraws, it’s with much lingering of lips and grinding of hips against him, making Crowley _groan._ And then, with a remarkably devilish smile (considering he is, ostensibly, an angel), Aziraphale snaps his fingers. Crowley suddenly has a _very_ naked angel in his lap. This draws a startled noise from Crowley, the kind of sound you’d expect from someone thrust into an unexpected situation. ( _Thrusting_ , of course, is exactly what Crowley intends to do. Luckily, Aziraphale seems to have the exact same idea, because while Crowley’s trying to react and adjust to the fact that Aziraphale’s now _nude_ in his lap, Aziraphale’s fishing Crowley’s rock hard prick from his breeches.)  
  
Crowley hasn’t even had the chance to glance down to confirm what sort of Effort Aziraphale’s chosen to make before Aziraphale shoves him backward into an inelegant sprawl. Crowley finally catches a glimpse of a thatch of light brown pubic hair nearly hiding the cunt Aziraphale’s chosen to manifest, and all he can think about is how _badly_ he wants to be inside Aziraphale, possibly even hisses something to that effect. But Aziraphale doesn’t quite seem content with just having Crowley beneath him. 

After a moment’s consideration, Aziraphale snaps his fingers again, and rope (surprisingly, angelically soft) wraps tight around his wrists and ankles, the ends coiling themselves snugly around the bed posts. Crowley’s cock _throbs_ with the surge of lust that floods him, and he lets out an almost bereft whine when Aziraphale settles himself atop Crowley’s prick-- not _impaling_ himself like Crowley wants, just pressing that deliciously wet heat down against his shaft, rubbing along his length.

“ _Fuck_ , angel, I--” Crowley throws back his head, hips lifting almost involuntarily. A helpless noise catches in his throat, and he writhes as best as he’s able with his wrists and ankles bound tight. Aziraphale murmurs quiet encouragements, soothing Crowley in a way that _feels_ more mocking, more teasing than it does reassuring. It only makes Crowley even hotter, even harder, and even more desperate to feel Aziraphale sink down onto him properly.  
  
“ _Please_ , please-- Please, angel, I can’t-- Oh, _fuck_ , I need--” Tears prick the corners of Crowley’s eyes as he whimpers and writhes and _begs_ , and Aziraphale denies him all the while. The next sound that leaves him is _decidedly_ a sob, and that _thing_ in his chest clenches and shatters and breaks as he falls apart. The climax that strikes him at the same instant only serves to further devastate him. Aziraphale doesn’t even seem to _realize_ how devastated he’s left Crowley until he shudders through his own orgasm.  
  
Crowley can’t even muster his wits enough to manage the simple miracle that’d disappear the ropes binding him, just tries instead to curl in on himself despite the way his gangly limbs are stretched out uncomfortably far. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, as if that’ll be enough to hide him, to hide his _shame_ from Aziraphale, who’s now uttering his name with soft but genuine concern. Mercifully, the rope finally disappears, and Crowley shoves at Aziraphale as he collapses inward, shoulders shaking, body streaked with sweat and semen and his own disappointment.  
  
Aziraphale doesn’t leave, which is both a blessing and a curse, and Crowley _hisses_ and bares fangs at him as he reaches for Crowley’s remains. He hesitates but doesn’t withdraw, and soon a warm hand is cupping his bony shoulder, amping up his pain and _rage_ ten-fold. But before he can spit the poison welling up behind his lips, Aziraphale grips his chin firmly, turns his face more fully toward him.  
  
“ _Enough_.” There’s the barest hint of the force of Heaven behind his voice, the kind of power that made Biblical heroes of old cower in the face of angels. Crowley stiffens but quiets all the same, his traitorous body still _soothed_ by the way Aziraphale takes charge. Aziraphale’s expression softens, and it’s almost too much to look at, making Crowley cringe. By the time Aziraphale withdraws his hand from Crowley’s face, however, the spell has been broken and he’s not quite _whole_ again, but is at least less visibly broken.  
  
“My dear boy, I…” Aziraphale seems lost for words, and Crowley lets his gaze drop, settle somewhere around the angel’s navel as his lingering misery coils around his heart (because of course it’s back in place now, still as fractured as ever, held together by sheer force of stubbornness and will). Aziraphale sighs. The misery sinks deeper. “Crowley, I shouldn’t have-- I pushed you too _far_.” The plunge of his heart is arrested mid-fall, and Crowley gives a startled, disbelieving glance up to Aziraphale’s face. He looks _guilty_ , and that’s almost enough to make him angry all over again.

“I’m not made of _glass_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley retorts heatedly, but in the wake of his breakdown, the words don’t quite ring true. Aziraphale, the bastard, simply gazes steadily at him. It’d almost be _better_ if he called him out as the bald-faced liar he is. His mouth twists into a bitter sneer, and Aziraphale sighs again. This time, when Crowley shoves at him, it’s with real meaning and effort.  
  
“Just-- _fuck off_ , then! I don’t _need_ you! I don’t need-- _thisssss_.” Crowley’s jaw clamps shut, cutting off the sibilance that’s crept in against his best wishes. He hurls himself to his feet, grabbing unseeingly at the dark-colored cloth that looks vaguely like what he’d been wearing.  
  
“ _Crowley_ , honestly. Just--” Crowley’s about to storm out, having given up on getting dressed and deciding he’d rather throw the door open and fling himself out into the night _naked_ than stay another moment with Aziraphale, who doesn’t even have the decency to be _properly_ angry with Crowley, like he clearly _deserves--_

The door slams shut in Crowley’s face, and he yelps and whirls around, teeth bared as he drops his clothes, fists clenched tight at his sides as he charges at Aziraphale. He literally _throws_ himself at the angel, who catches him and holds him firm against his chest, arms like steel bands around him as he thrashes and spits and curses and calls Aziraphale every name under the sun. Aziraphale stays quiet throughout, just lets him wear himself out, and finally he subsides. He’s breathing heavily, his face flushed, and he’s even more _sickeningly_ disgusted with himself.  
  
What’s even _more_ disgusting is the way he just lets Aziraphale bundle him up in his arms, take him back to bed and pull Crowley close. Crowley just buries his face into Aziraphale’s chest like he can hide there for the rest of eternity, and Aziraphale cautiously brushes a few strands of hair back from his face.  
  
“Are you ready to let me talk now?” Aziraphale asks after a moment, and Crowley makes a noise that isn’t quite assent but isn’t a _no_ either. Aziraphale’s mouth twitches with either amusement or annoyance (possibly both), just visible in Crowley’s periphery. “I shouldn’t have… _pushed_ you like that,” Aziraphale begins, uncertainly. This time, Crowley doesn’t sneer, but he does scoff audibly enough Aziraphale falters, then sighs and begins again. “I know you are… well, not _entirely_ new to this, of course, but I… well, I suspect you are new to _this_ part of things, this… _intensity_ that can come of one person giving control entirely over to another.”  
  
Crowley’s nostrils flare, and his eyes narrow into slits. Whatever it is Aziraphale’s implying, he’s quite sure he _doesn’t_ like it. Aziraphale makes a small, frustrated sound.  
  
“My dear, you _know_ I do not mean that-- Well, I simply mean that things can be rather _intense_ when one individual takes control in the bedroom like I have, and… well, as I said, I believe I pushed you too far. _And stop hissing at me, Crowley, I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”_  
  
Crowley subsides, but he does so sullenly enough it’s nearly audible all the same. Aziraphale, clearly choosing to take the higher ground this time, continues as if he’s not perfectly aware that Crowley is _stewing_ right now.  
  
“I just think that… If we’re going to do this, we ought to have _ground rules_ , that’s all,” he finally finishes. Silence settles thickly between them, but there’s a grudgingly thoughtful air to it as well.  
  
“Ground rules?” Crowley finally echoes, his voice a mere tiptoe into the hush. He’s interested again despite himself, and Aziraphale gives a slow, serious nod.  
  
“Ground rules. Such as-- well, perhaps we ought to have a… a _signal_ , some sort of indication that things are getting to be too much-- _That is_ , that you wish me to slow down or stop,” he hastily corrects, when an almost feline growl starts up in Crowley’s throat at the implication (once again) that he’s some _fragile_ thing who can’t handle whatever Aziraphale throws at him. (The fact that he _is_ a fragile thing in some very specific ways is entirely beside the point.)  
  
Silence, as Crowley chews over his words for a moment before letting them tumble awkwardly from his lips. “Like… a _word_ , or a _phrase_ ?” Aziraphale hums an affirmation, and Crowley broods over the implications for a moment, turning over a few choice syllables in his mind, considering. “ _Veritas?_ ” he offers, a bit slyly, considering the pronunciation is Ecclesiastical rather than properly Classical. And both of them damn well know the difference. He _knows_ Aziraphale picks up on it too, because he stiffens and shifts his weight the slightest bit, the way he does when he’s _uncomfortable_ and _uptight_ about something. 

Crowley smirks, and Aziraphale huffs and murmurs, "Alright then. _Weritas_ it is," making Crowley _groan._

“ _Come on_ , now you just made it sound _stupid_.”

“ _You’re_ the one who insists on using _incorrect_ pronunciation--”

“It’s _Ecclesiastical_ , for Satan’s sake! The blessed _Church_ uses it--”

It has all the comfort and familiarity of a well-worn argument, and they bicker about it for some time, until the tension has finally unwound from Crowley’s spine and his shoulders have eased down from where they’d hunched around his ears. He wonders if that hadn't been his (or even Aziraphale's) goal all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of the fic will be posted tomorrow (2/1). :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's in over his head.

After the Globe Theatre, they ease into what’ll later be termed _kink_ a bit more slowly, dipping in first a toe, then an ankle, before gradually fully submerging. Crowley immediately wants to _drown_ in it. But Aziraphale is one of the only creatures on or off planet earth who can be even more stubborn than Crowley, and Aziraphale leads Crowley down the path together with a gentle but _very_ firm grasp. And Crowley, the hopeless _fuck_ , falls deeper and deeper in love with Aziraphale every time he’s cut loose to drift in the vast cosmos of subspace, with only his orbit around Aziraphale to guide him. (And _that_ is a term that’ll come much later. Crowley will smugly declare himself its inventor, when kink becomes more prominent, develops its own subculture.)

Getting sexually involved with Aziraphale is absolutely the worst idea Crowley’s ever had. And it’s also the most spectacular.

The Bastille nearly wrecks him. Crowley’s not _overly_ concerned with the fact that Aziraphale would have been discorporated without his intervention ( _really_ , he’s not, his heart’s just pounding in anticipation of the pounding _he’s_ going to get afterward, a reward for acting the savior), but Aziraphale looks so gorgeous and so very _pleased_ to see Crowley that it makes his gnarled mess of a heart swell against his ribcage painfully. His chest seems to be doing rather agonizing things in _general_ lately any time Aziraphale’s around, and Crowley’s finally (grudgingly) accepted it for what it is. He’s absolutely hopelessly enamored with Aziraphale, and if and when Aziraphale learns that he’s not just in this for _friendship_ and getting his rocks off, it’s going to utterly destroy Crowley. He can only fervently hope it’ll be worth it.

Snapping his fingers to release Aziraphale from his bonds is the easiest thing in the world, and it also leaves him half-hard in his trousers, imagining how that cold metal would feel around _his_ wrists instead. He doesn’t say it aloud, tries his hardest to play it cool, but there’s a knowing gleam in Aziraphale’s eyes. And when Aziraphale’s would-be executioner is dragged off to his fate, if Crowley uses a _frivolous_ miracle of his own to ensure the man gets a last-second escape, it has _nothing at all_ to do with the way Aziraphale _beams_ at him afterward. His face lights up like the sun, his eyes _sparkle_ , and Crowley thinks, _oh no_. It’s even worse than he thought.

Later, they return to the very cell from which Crowley had rescued Aziraphale (which Crowley’s beginning to think was some sort of set-up all along). Aziraphale fastens those same shackles around Crowley’s wrists and presses him back against the cold stone wall. Crowley comes with his legs wrapped bruisingly tight around Aziraphale’s waist and his angel’s name on his lips. Crowley might never come _again_ for any reason _other_ than Aziraphale. (He also wonders when Aziraphale became _his_ angel but quickly veers away from the thought. _Love_ is something he’s reluctantly accepted that he feels toward Aziraphale. _Possessiveness_ is something else entirely, something _dangerous_ that will get his heart shattered in the end.)

Over time, they learn each others’ quirks and kinks and interests in the bedroom. Aziraphale gets _remarkably_ good at taking Crowley apart one piece at a time, before carefully, almost _tenderly_ reassembling him afterward (and it seems they’ve not only invented _safewords_ but _aftercare_ as well). Crowley’s decidedly in over his head, barely even treading water, and he’s never been happier _or_ more miserable in his millennia-long existence.  
  
Crowley gets fucked, paddled, spanked, and taken to dizzying heights of pain and pleasure. And all the while, he _pines_.

It makes it both better and worse every time Aziraphale draws him up in his arms, running fingers through his sweat-damp hair, letting Crowley press his body full-length against him to sate the flesh hunger that’s settled bone-deep within him over the centuries. It’s almost enough, the soft encouragement and, yes, even _endearments_ that Aziraphale murmurs as he holds him close and helps him settle back down to earth. Sometimes, when he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, he can almost imagine (for a moment, a _second_ at most) that Aziraphale might feel even a fraction of the same way that Crowley does about him. It’s torturous, and as they’ve both _intimately_ learned, Crowley is ever the masochist.

Years somehow simultaneously both fly by and _creep_ past. Aziraphale learns every nook and cranny of Crowley’s body and psyche. Crowley gives himself over to him entirely. It’s utterly unsustainable, and Crowley _knows_ that, but he’s never been a particularly _good_ decision-maker, has never had the wits about him to _slow down_ and _think_ for a blessed moment before throwing himself headlong into danger.

\--------------------

A few years later, Aziraphale opens his bookshop. He’s bright-eyed, enthusiastic, bustling around with excitement, and Crowley’s never been more in love with him. (That Aziraphale hasn’t quite seemed to grasp that owning a bookshop means presumably _selling_ some of his rare scrolls and manuscripts does nothing to temper Crowley’s fondness. If anything, it leaves him more enamored than ever.)  
  
Crowley discreetly works a few demonic miracles to ensure that Aziraphale’s grand opening is a success (and to _dissuade_ would-be customers away from the books Aziraphale’s particularly fond of). Aziraphale is nearly euphoric and can’t stop babbling later about how well everything went, won’t shut up about the _connoisseurs_ of literature which he’d engaged in a few rousing debates. Crowley fights to hide his smile behind his champagne glass. They’d opened up a proper vintage bottle, one of the first truly _good_ years in the bubbly wine’s early history. Crowley’s all loose-limbed and fuzzy-headed, draped across Aziraphale’s sofa like he _owns_ the thing. (Yet another spike of _possessiveness_ as he considers this, and he fights the urge to mark his territory like some sort of animal.)

He’s so wrapped up in his fondness and contentment and _want_ that at first, he doesn’t quite register what Aziraphale’s said.  
  
“ _Mm?_ ” Crowley responds, a bit drowsily, where the warmth of the room has settled into his reptilian bones, lulling him into a state of complacency.

“I _said_ … perhaps we ought to _christen_ the shop now,” Aziraphale responds, somehow both prim and _mischievous_ , his face a bit flushed from warmth and excitement and the buzz he surely has going as well. Crowley’s abruptly _quite_ wide awake.  
  
“ _Oh?_ ” Crowley replies, silky-smooth, as he slides his way free of the sofa, hips snaking as he saunters over toward Aziraphale with clear intent. As if _he’s_ the predator and not the main course. Aziraphale looks fond and _desirous_ and almost amused at his approach, and he allows Crowley to straddle him in the armchair that’s almost too tight a fit for both of them. Crowley _growls_ , his cock already starting to swell in his trousers in pure anticipation.  
  
“Indeed,” Aziraphale murmurs, his hands settling on Crowley’s hips like they belong there, like _Crowley_ belongs to him (and he does, _Satan help him_ , he’s Aziraphale’s, body and soul). Crowley’s body trembles minutely at his touch before he melds himself to Aziraphale and kisses him with the slow-kindling desire within him that’s already threatening to spark a wildfire. Aziraphale slips an arm around the small of his back, presses him in close, and they both make a small sound of approval as this presses Crowley’s erection more firmly against Aziraphale’s belly. Crowley bites at Aziraphale’s lower lip, abruptly _ravenous_ for him and _desperately_ needy, and Aziraphale laughs softly and gets the hint.

It starts, as it often does, with Aziraphale taking the edge off Crowley’s desire. Crowley gasps into his mouth, _whimpers_ , and _shudders_ as he spills over Aziraphale’s hand and onto his waistcoat, neither of them undressed at all yet. It’s easy enough for Aziraphale to wave the mess away, and then he gets to his feet, while Crowley’s heart’s still pounding and muscles are still twitching with the aftershocks of climax. Aziraphale is, and always has been, _deceptively_ strong, so with nothing more than a minor miracle to ensure Crowley doesn’t slip free of his grasp he’s able to rise with Crowley still in his arms. Crowley wraps his legs around that comfortably padded waist, nuzzles into Aziraphale’s neck and brushes kisses and teasing nips there.  
  
And then, Aziraphale lays him out on the very sofa he’d lounged on but a scant few minutes prior. He starts to undress Crowley manually, taking his time doing so the _human_ way as he so often prefers, but Crowley won’t let him pull back far enough to get his trousers off, so he finally sighs (with a bit of an indulgent smile) and waves the rest of their clothes into a neatly folded pile on his armchair. The sofa stretches enough to accommodate both of them comfortably, and Crowley groans as Aziraphale’s weight presses down on him, his hands clamping with familiar tightness around Crowley’s wrists to pin them above his head. Crowley’s almost dizzy with lust, with _wanting_ , ready to give Aziraphale anything and everything he wants of him.

“Look at you,” Aziraphale murmurs, releasing Crowley’s wrists so he can withdraw just enough to take Crowley in properly (though rope slithers its way up and around them in his hands’ place, keeping Crowley just as he is). Crowley shivers under Aziraphale’s gaze, his cock throbbing and body flushed with what’s almost _embarassment_. It always _does things_ to him when Aziraphale compliments him, when he calls Crowley _beautiful_ and tells him he’s a good boy.

This time, though, there’s something slightly _different_ in Aziraphale’s gaze, in his expression. Something _softer_. And when he murmurs that Crowley’s _perfect_ as he runs his hands up Crowley’s sides in a way that’s almost _loving_ , something splits open deep inside Crowley, raw and ugly and _utterly_ unprepared.  
  
“ _Veritas_.” The word’s blurted out before Crowley even realizes what’s happening with him, and he tears himself free of the rope binding him and scrambles away from Aziraphale, eyes wide and chest heaving. He feels pinned down, _exposed_ , almost trapped, and panic’s rising in his chest at an alarming rate.  
  
“Crowley? _Crowley_ , breathe, my dear, just--” Aziraphale moves in slowly, cautiously, his brow furrowed with concern, his hands outstretched like he’s approaching a wild animal. And at the moment, that’s probably accurate enough. Crowley bares his teeth, a half-hearted gesture. Aziraphale clearly knows it, too, because he finally (slowly) closes the distance between them and pulls Crowley into his arms. He does it gently enough that Crowley could easily break free if he chose to, but the problem is that Crowley _doesn’t know_ what he wants or needs right now. All he knows is that he _can’t handle_ Aziraphale being soft and tender and _caring._ So he throws himself headlong into the reckless, ugly feeling rising up within him and tangles his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, kissing him almost _violently._

Aziraphale, clearly startled, makes to pull away at first, and he’s no doubt intending to try to make Crowley _slow down_ so they can assess how he’s doing. But if Crowley eases up even slightly on his frantic pace, he’ll have to stop and _examine_ what’s happening inside him, and that’s simply _not_ going to happen. So he ramps up his hunger, his _urgency_ , and his body’s unsure enough of what’s going on with him that it responds with arousal, however inappropriate it might technically be at the moment. Aziraphale finally gives a soft noise of assent and slides his arms around Crowley, reaching down to _squeeze_ his arse and draw him in flush against him. They both gasp as Crowley’s erection rubs against Aziraphale’s stomach, hard and wet. Aziraphale’s own prick is stirring again as well, and soon they’re rutting against one another where they stand, Crowley trying to devour Aziraphale’s lips for all he’s worth.  
  
When Aziraphale finally pulls back, Crowley’s stomach lurches, because he’s _sure_ he’s finally caught on and will _force_ Crowley to stop. So he surges in to fill the silence the instant Aziraphale’s lips part.  
  
“ _Fuck me,_ ” Crowley growls, and the frantic desperation in his voice is easily enough mistaken for _hunger_ and lust. “Bend me over your desk and _pound me_ , Aziraphale,” he hisses, rakes his nails down Aziraphale’s back in a way that makes him twitch and gasp (because he’s not the _only_ pain slut here, even if he’s the bigger masochist by far). “Pin me down,” he nips at Aziraphale’s neck, ferocious enough to damn near break the skin. “ _Ravish_ me.”

Aziraphale, for all he’s _so smart_ can also be incredibly short-sighted. He knows Crowley _so well_ , but he still manages to be fooled by Crowley’s bravado and the way he bowls through life with reckless abandon, still lets them distract him from the fragile thing that is Crowley’s heart. He does exactly as Crowley asks, and when it doesn’t quite fill the gaping hole in Crowley’s chest, he fucks him again in his bedroom. And if a few tears splash down onto Aziraphale’s bedsheets, it’s enough explained away as a side-effect of the devastating orgasm that rips through Crowley and leaves him shaking, swearing, and even more hollow inside than before.

\--------------------

For completely unrelated reasons, Crowley decides to take a decades-long nap shortly after the disaster at the bookshop. When he drags himself out of bed some 60 years later, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, something has hardened inside of him. He withdraws from Aziraphale, throws that crumbling brick wall back up around his heart, and decides on his contingency plan.  
  
Aziraphale casts a brief look of concern toward Crowley when they meet at St. James’s Park, which Crowley pretends not to notice. He’s well-enough put-together (on the outside, at least), so Aziraphale’s worry goes unspoken. Aziraphale _suits_ this century, Crowley notes with misery. The way Aziraphale reminds him that he’s _Fallen_ just twists the knife deeper in his heart, makes him wince internally, because of course Aziraphale’s _right_. And when Aziraphale alludes to the _Agreement_ and lending a hand, Crowley’s certain he’s not just talking about the temptations and blessings they perform on each other’s behalf. Aziraphale’s angry with him, he’s sure, and rightly so. That just makes it all the more important for Crowley to have his insurance, his contingency plan.

He’s somehow… not prepared for how _outraged_ it makes Aziraphale. And even as he’s spitting hateful, hurtful words right back at him, Crowley can’t help but feel that same unsightly surge of _hope_ (a truly wretched thing) that maybe Aziraphale feels _something_ for him too. It’s impossible, of course, he _knows_ that he’s unlovable (and, as he’ll later _throw_ in Aziraphale’s face, unforgivable). But he hasn’t fully yet clipped the wings of the ugly, winged creature that’s taken up residence within his breast. His self-hatred simply deepens, along with the iron-clad resolution that he _never_ let on how desperately he _needs_ Aziraphale or how empty he feels when they’re at odds.

They don’t speak after that for some decades. The years are _agonizingly_ long, no matter how many naps Crowley takes, and when he learns that Aziraphale’s been spending time at a _discreet gentlemen’s club_ , he destroys everything in his flat in a fit of pique and miracles entirely different furniture into existence in their place. That helps, a _bit_ , but not for nearly as long as he’d like.

Crowley is miserable, he is _suffering_ , and he both loves and hates Aziraphale right now in equal measures, though it can never even begin to equal the level of hatred he has for himself.  
  
Crowley leans into his demonic nature for a time, to remind himself that he’s unlovable, that he isn’t anywhere near _perfect_ (and just _remembering_ the way Aziraphale had murmured that word is enough to send icy shards punching through his blackened heart). He gets endless commendations from head office, and he sneers at every one of them before crumpling them and scorching them to dust. He reconsiders his post on earth, wonders if he ought to go back to Hell, give up on it all.  
  
And then, the War happens, and the Blitz. And all of Crowley’s resolve crumbles like so much ash in his mouth.

\--------------------

Crowley, when he really tries, has always been able to pinpoint Aziraphale’s presence on earth. It’s something he’s never looked at too closely, never _dared_ to examine why it exists, and why it’s not true of any of his fellow demons, let alone any of his other _adversaries_.

Crowley decides he ought to at least give Aziraphale a proper farewell. It doesn’t occur to him to wonder _why_ Aziraphale is still in London with the Blitz in full force. (After all, _he’s_ still here, albeit with a slightly more demonically-reinforced home. But then, the ruins around him seem a fitting analog for the ruins of his heart.)

When he tracks Aziraphale to a _Church_ of all things, he _groans_ and rolls his eyes Heavenward. Of _course_ that’s where he’d find him. But it’s just as he steels himself to enter and subject his demonic vessel to the kind of consecrated ground it was _never_ meant to traverse, he gets some niggling sensation that _something_ isn’t right. Crowley frowns, uses a minor demonic miracle to push past the Church’s crumbling weakened divine barriers (crumbling, like so much in London right now), and then he realizes exactly what’s happening.

In the end, it’s almost _too_ easy to fling his determination aside as he throws open the doors to the church. It’s not _nearly_ as suave as he’d hoped, what with him hopping from foot to foot and wincing as his flesh bakes right through the soles of his shoes, but it’s worth _all_ of it to save Aziraphale. (His traitorous heart doesn’t seem to give a damn about all of his well-laid plans, or his resolutions. It cracks open anew when Aziraphale thanks him, and he hisses _shut up_ as he slides his sunglasses, his shield, back into place.)

It’s almost an afterthought to save Aziraphale’s books, as easy as breathing ( _easier_ , even, because breathing, he can do without). He tosses an offer of a ride over his shoulder as he goes, and with his back to Aziraphale he completely misses the way Aziraphale _looks_ as he gazes after Crowley, soft and undeniably _in love_.

Crowley decides not to go back to Hell after that and convinces himself it’s because earth is too damn _interesting_ , and not at all because he wants to keep rescuing Aziraphale again and again. (Twice was already two times too many to save himself from throwing himself against the rocky shores of Aziraphale’s affection and foundering in the wake of his own self-destructive tendencies.) And after hurling himself headlong into danger, risking discorporation or _worse_ for the sake of his _hereditary enemy_ (as Aziraphale would later call him), he finds it harder and harder to stay away.

\---------------

Spending more time with Aziraphale, even gingerly pressing against the idea of resuming their _Arrangement_ like a bruise to test its tenderness, doesn’t stop Crowley from being reckless and foolish and self-sabotaging. If anything, he gets _wors_ , which is what prompts his ridiculous, James Bond-inspired gambit to obtain holy water. If he really wanted to, he could acquire it with hardly a thought. But he _wants_ to be caught, wants Aziraphale to know how much of a wreck he is right now.

It works, in the end, a little too well. He’s startled when he gets in his car and Aziraphale’s _there_. Crowley is soft and longing and _desperate_. He knows it shows. That Aziraphale gives him what he’d asked for a century prior is nothing compared to Crowley’s _need_ to throw himself at Aziraphale’s feet and beg permission, beg to _submit_ once more. He swallows down those words, offers instead to give him a ride, _anywhere_ he likes-- _Please, angel, I need you, I miss you_. And Aziraphale shuts him down, looks almost regretful as he does. Crowley hadn’t realized there were any pieces of his heart that remained whole until Aziraphale shatters them into diamond-sharp slivers with those words. _You go too fast for me, Crowley._

He’s silent, bereft, as Aziraphale leaves. It doesn’t even register, really that Aziraphale had offered an olive branch of sorts, a _promise_ , delicate as spun glass where it hangs in the air between them. Crowley unknowingly lets it fall, just one more broken thing between them.  
  
It’s shortly after that that Crowley throws himself fully into _gardening_ , in the loosest possible definition of the word. He surrounds himself with lush, verdant vegetation and tries hard not to think of how it reminds him of Eden. It’s a decent enough distraction, at least, and when he hears mention on the radio of _talking_ to plants, he takes to it with wild abandon. Crowley absolutely _terrorizes_ his first batch of plants, the Guinea pigs, and what later ones go through is nothing compared to the raw _agony_ that is Crowley unleashing himself upon them. Every new leaf spot, every shriveled, brown, _dead_ thing that lines the bottom of the pots is simply further evidence of his own shortcomings, his own _failures_.

He keeps his distance from Aziraphale all the while.  
  
His plants and various demonic activities keep him only somewhat distracted from the throbbing, festering wound in his chest. The M25 is clever enough, he thinks, even if the rest of Hell doesn’t appreciate it. But they’ve never been willing to _change with the times_ , have they? Bloody _stupid_ demons.

Crowley isn’t remotely prepared to be handed the fuse that will light Armageddon (and the world) on fire, and he’s certain it must show, but Hastur and Ligur are both utter _idiots_ anyway. Crowley swears up a storm as he drives away, until Satan Himself reaches out with the voice of Freddie Mercury. He’s too wrapped up in his own _panic_ that everything’s going to come to an end, and he and Aziraphale are _still at odds with one another_ , to process the compliment he’s given. The vision that pours directly into his skull distracts him enough he almost drives headfirst into a lorry, before regaining his senses and veering away at the last possible second. It would have been just his luck to get _discorporated_ with the _bloody Antichrist_ in his backseat.

He delivers the Antichrist successfully ( _well_ , not so successfully, as he’d later learn, but he doesn’t _seem_ to completely fuck it all up in the moment). And then, lacking any better option, adrift without a single life raft in sight, he calls Aziraphale.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley (and Aziraphale) deal with the impending Apocalypse and what comes next.

Crowley curses his own self-defeating _incompetence_ , because in the wake of delivering the blessed Antichrist, he’d already forgotten about the mobile phone network he’d just taken down. Thankfully, these are the early days of the mobile phone craze, and there’s still pay phones to be found about London.

He pretends things are _fine_ and that he hasn’t been sulking and self-flagellating for decades. But he’s sure something of it still comes across in the way he says “Aziraphale, it’s me. We need to talk.” Before Aziraphale can bring up their secondary _Arrangement_ , the fact that they’ve barely talked (let alone kissed or _fucked_ ) in decades, he drops the bombshell. It’s an effective deterrent from talking about the (other) elephant in the room. Crowley shoves his feelings deep, deep down ( _miles_ down) before they meet. It doesn’t help that they meet at St. James’s Park, and the chasm in his chest yawns still wider at the memories which greet him there.

They sit awkwardly apart on the bench, Crowley’s spine ramrod straight where he sits at the far end as they talk. When Aziraphale claims that his side _will_ win, of course, Crowley can’t help the half-smile that creeps onto his face. It’s a comfortable, familiar argument. He sidles out onto the well-worn path, unable to resist needling Aziraphale a bit. (And if he stretches his arm out a bit along the back of the bench as he talks, partly closes the gap between them, it goes unremarked upon.) He’s half-teasing now, half-serious as he probes at each of Aziraphale’s interests with unerring precision. He knows his angel so very well and knows exactly how to convince him that Armageddon might not be the best thing to happen, even _if_ Heaven wins.

Aziraphale is stubborn, though. Crowley had forgotten _just_ how stubborn he could be. He flings out the offer of lunch in last-minute desperation, and Aziraphale finally caves. And then, Heaven (or Hell, or _someone_ ) help him, Aziraphale lights up like the sun at the memory from the Bastille, when Aziraphale had fucked him against the wall of the cell after they’d gone and had crepes.

Crowley is _certain_ Aziraphale knows precisely the effect he has on Crowley, even now. That mention of the Bastille, combined with the positively _indecent_ way Aziraphale enjoys himself at the Ritz, has him practically vibrating with barely contained lust. Bitterness lays heavy on his tongue, weighing down all the apologies he longs to offer, _would_ offer if he wasn’t such a blessed coward. He wonders if he could offer himself instead, if that would make up for the way he’s distanced himself over the recent years.

He’s too lost in his own brooding to notice the careful way Aziraphale swallows and looks at him with nervous hope as he asks Crowley what he’s in the mood for now, too self-absorbed to see beyond his own _longing_ to notice the olive branch for what it really is. So he answers the only way he can.

“Alcohol. Quite _extraordinary_ amounts of alcohol.”

\--------------------

After Aziraphale reminds Crowley, quite painfully, that they’re _hereditary enemies,_ they get thoroughly smashed back at the bookshop, and it’s almost like old times. It’s almost like that brief sliver of time between when they’d become properly friends and when Crowley decided to _complicate_ things by introducing sex into the mix. Armageddon is rather a good distraction, it turns out, but nothing can ever _fully_ distract him from the deep-seated desire he feels for Aziraphale.

They have a plan, in the loosest sense of the word. Crowley’s not nearly foolish enough to allow _hope_ to enter the picture, not just yet. (He also refuses to examine too closely the way Aziraphale’s eyes had _sparkled_ when he’d murmured _godfathers_ , like he’d be happier to do nothing more than _raise a bloody child_ with Crowley. No… Definitely dangerous territory, that.) There’s silence between them now that they’ve sorted out what to do about the Antichrist, and Crowley’s drinking again just to have something to do with his hands, refusing to look too closely at Aziraphale because he’d _seen_ the way the smile had dropped right off Aziraphale’s face when he’d made that _stupid_ , flippant remark. ( _It’s not that bad when you get used to it_ , how bloody idiotic could he _be?_ ) Aziraphale is quiet in an uncomfortable sort of way, fidgeting with his truly excessive number of layers the way he always does when he’s got something he’d like to say but isn’t _quite_ sure how to say it, or how Crowley might take it.

“Out with it, then,” Crowley growls, a headache throbbing somewhere around his left temple despite the fact he’d fully sobered up. A _tension_ headache, he might call it, if he were inclined to pay close attention to the human experience of headaches in general. He’s definitely _tense_ , that much is for sure.

“Do you think… ah…” Aziraphale flounders a bit, and a muscle twitches in Crowley’s jaw. He’s trying _very_ hard not to snap at Aziraphale, not to give into the temptation to pick a fight just to make himself feel together. After all, they have to _work_ together now, more closely than ever. Aziraphale swallows and tries again. “Do you think, given that the end of the world is quite literally upon us, that we ought to… That is, I think it would be perfectly understandable if we…” Aziraphale fidgets, twitches, steals only the briefest of glances toward Crowley, a flush to his cheeks that’s normally only there when they’re both quite intoxicated or tangled up between the sheets-- _Ah._

“You want to _fuck,_ ” Crowley remarks, aiming for a sneer but falling a bit flat. Aziraphale’s fingers tap away where they rest on his knees, and he gives a twitch that could be construed as a half-aborted shrug. Crowley’s eyes narrow. Aziraphale being _nervous_ about this subject is new. He wonders if it’s because of what happened before, the way Crowley had pulled away from him by several _leagues_ after Aziraphale had given him what he’d asked for (a thorough, brutal pounding). Crowley’s silent for long enough as he _broods_ on the concept, weighing the pros and cons, that Aziraphale starts to open his mouth, clearly planning to ask Crowley to _disregard that, no idea what I was thinking._ Crowley heads him off at the pass. “Alright, then. Let’s fuck.” Crowley keeps his voice as bland as possible, but his hands are shaking just a bit. He has to focus harder than he’d like in order to set his glass down on the table beside him.

Thankfully, despite his obvious lingering uncertainty, Aziraphale clearly has no problem taking charge like always (like he used to). He gets to his feet first and moves in toward where Crowley’s sprawled on the sofa, and Crowley lifts his chin almost in _challenge_. Something’s changed between them, something’s changed within _Aziraphale_ , and the only way he knows how to deal with it is to needle Aziraphale into fucking him senseless.  
  
For once, though, Aziraphale doesn’t take the bait. Not quite. He does carefully straddle Crowley, seeming slightly self-conscious as he does so, but instead of kissing Crowley, he just brushes a strand of long red hair out of his face, tucks it behind his ear. Crowley’s face goes hot, and his mouth goes dry, because this is _not_ what he’d expected.

“Crowley, you must know that I…”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Crowley hisses, and he grabs a fistful of Aziraphale’s lapels to yank him into a sloppy, _violent_ kiss. Aziraphale makes a startled sound against him, and at first he tries to pull back, but Crowley is insistent and _hungry_ , and he finally relaxes and gives in. And gradually, _Aziraphale_ becomes the one kissing _Crowley_ instead of the reverse. Kissing him and nipping at his lower lip and licking his way into Crowley’s mouth, leaving Crowley flushed and tingling from head to toe. By the time Aziraphale moves onto his neck, sinking his teeth in hard enough to make Crowley _groan_ , Crowley’s hands have found their way to Aziraphale’s rump and he’s squeezing it, pressing his erection against Aziraphale as he lifts his hips just so to grind against him.  
  
“Bedroom?” Aziraphale murmurs at last, his breath hot against Crowley’s neck, and Crowley’s insides have gotten so _wobbly_ at the thought of Aziraphale leaving vibrant red-purple marks all along the column of his throat that he only vaguely croaks a sound of agreement. With a soft huff of laughter and a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, they’re in his bed.

Crowley’s on his back now, with Aziraphale still seated atop him (and he’s _sure_ the bastard is rocking his hips slightly on _purpose_ to tease Crowley), and he’s almost breathless with lust and anticipation. Aziraphale’s gazing down at him with a complicated expression ( _fond_ and _hungry_ , certainly, but Crowley doesn’t want to, _refuses_ to confront what else might be there). Crowley hisses and grabs for Aziraphale’s lapels again, and just as he’d expected, Aziraphale’s hands clamp down firmly on his wrists, giving him exactly what he wanted.  
  
“Now, now, Crowley. Be a _good boy_.” It’s almost too easy for Aziraphale to pin Crowley’s wrists above his head, summon that familiar soft rope to wind about his wrists and bind him to the bedposts. Crowley’s still _dressed_ and he’s already halfway to subspace, eyes half-lidded and kiss-swollen lips parted expectantly. Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, letting his hands slide beneath Crowley’s half-untucked shirt, slipping underneath to the bare flesh below, and Crowley’s abdominal muscles contract and spasm beneath the unexpected contact. (He might just _groan_ softly too, but he’d absolutely deny it if asked.)  
  
“You’re so lovely, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley tenses, but Aziraphale simply tsks at that and leans in to kiss away his worries. “Hush. Let me take care of you. You’re so very clever and deserve a reward for coming up with your clever, clever plan.” This is slightly more comfortable footing, and Crowley can at least _accept_ that his plan to thwart the Great Plan is a decent one (though he’d never call it that to Aziraphale’s face, never imply they’re going against _God_ ). So he gives a slightly shaky nod, and Aziraphale smiles, beatific. “Wonderful.”

Some little voice in the back of his head hisses that he knows perfectly well this is just a loophole, that Aziraphale is doing more than just _rewarding_ him, but Crowley firmly slams and locks the door on it, wrapped up as he is in the _sensations_ Aziraphale’s evoking in him. Aziraphale doesn’t seem too bothered by the fact that he’d bound Crowley’s wrists before undressing him. He still takes his time shrugging Crowley’s coat off his shoulders the old-fashioned way, only miracling them away at the last minute to get them out of his way. He _tsks_ at the so-called scarf Crowley’s got tied loosely around his neck, and Crowley mutters something about how _it’s fashion, angel, learn to live in this century_. Aziraphale doesn’t take offense, and Crowley isn’t sure if he’d intended him to, but that’s eventually miracled away as well.

Crowley’s vest is next, and Crowley frowns slightly as Aziraphale’s fingers fumble just a bit, nothing like his usual, confident, experienced self. He rolls his hips as a distraction, is rewarded with the soft gasp as Aziraphale feels Crowley’s erection press against him. His shirt, Aziraphale simply rucks up for now, and he murmurs _lovely_ again as it earns him a glimpse of Crowley’s bare flesh. Crowley doesn’t quite manage to assemble a _scathing_ remark before warm hands are on his bare flesh, sliding up to his chest before nails rake their way downward again. Crowley gives a deep _groan_ at that, hips rolling this time of their own volition. And then, Aziraphale focuses his attention on Crowley’s nipples, and his brain entirely short-circuits.

They’d discovered fairly early on in their dalliances that Crowley has _exceptionally_ sensitive nipples. They seem to be connected directly to his cock, and everything from a soft brush of Aziraphale’s fingers to the sharp pinch of his teeth makes him gasp and groan. Tonight, Aziraphale is taking his sweet time teasing Crowley, like he has all the time in the world even though they _both_ know that isn’t the case at _all_ , not anymore. Crowley can’t bring himself to care. His eyes flutter shut and his back _arches_ as Aziraphale’s hot, wet mouth assaults the delicate peak of his nipple, teeth scraping and tongue swirling in a way that makes him _shudder_. _Fuck_ , he’s pretty sure he could come from that alone, given enough time, and he feverishly wonders if that’s what Aziraphale has planned for him.  
  
“Mmmm. So _responsive_ , aren’t you, dear boy?” Aziraphale murmurs, the normally hot puff of his breath only serving to chill Crowley’s damp nipple, making it harden even more in response. Crowley grumbles half-heartedly, and Aziraphale laughs and gives his other (thus far, neglected) nipple a firm pinch that makes him _whine_ high in his throat. “You know, I did pick up a little… _gift_ a while ago, and though it didn’t seem the right time to give it to you for a _while_ , I suppose we might as well at this point, hm?” Crowley blinks hazily up at Aziraphale, not quite following, as a small gift bag manifests in Aziraphale’s hands. “Would you like to see what I got for you?” Crowley blinks again but eventually gives a little shrug and accompanying sound that Aziraphale clearly takes as a yes.  
  
When Aziraphale reaches into the bag and pulls out the gleaming metal chain, Crowley is utterly transfixed. His mouth, previously desert-dry, floods like the Nile as he realizes what he’s looking at. The rubber-tipped alligator clamps are adjustable, judging by the screw attached to each of them, and the linked chain which connects them is almost mesmerizing in its shine. He’s sure it’ll feel cold as ice against his too-sensitive skin, a fact which finally makes him moan softly in pure _want_ . Aziraphale smirks, a bit pleased with himself.

“I take it you like your gift?” he remarks archly, as if it isn’t _perfectly_ obvious what effect the sight of the nipple clamps is having on Crowley.

“Angel, if you don’t put those on me _right this instant--_ ”

“Pushy, pushy,” Aziraphale teases, but he crumples like a wet paper bag under Crowley’s insistence. The clamps _hurt_ , but it’s a dull, throbbing ache that his masochistic brain still instantly equates with pleasure, making him swear and lift his hips in seek of friction to ease the way they’ve made his cock throb in sympathy.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Crowley bites out, and it’s an _understatement_ to say the least, and the chain is _exactly_ as icy-cold against his flushed skin as he’d thought it would be. Reptilian as he is, he’s more likely to seek out _heat_ than chill, but right now it adds just the right level of pain to the contact.

“Mmmm, I’ve been imagining how these would look on you ever since I saw them in that little shop down the road…” Crowley’s brain _completely_ shorts out for a minute, because he doesn’t even know what to _do_ with the image of _Aziraphale_ in a sex shop, looking at _sex toys_ and _nipple clamps_ and _thinking of Crowley_. When Aziraphale gives an experimental tug to the chain connecting the clamps, that’s it, the final push he needs to topple over the edge. Crowley _howls_ as his hips jerk, body spasming as he spills his hot load inside his pants and trousers and all. He’s dimly aware that Aziraphale looks a bit startled and amused (and _smug_ , of course he is), as the agonizing pleasure wracks his body.  
  
Even after his climax fades, Crowley’s still left twitching and _hissing_ with the aftershocks, and of course that’s the moment Aziraphale leans in to kiss him. Crowley’s pulse is thrumming in his ear, a throbbing, pounding rhythm loud enough to momentarily drown out his own thoughts. He strains against the rope keeping him bound to the bed, a whine rising in his throat as he finds himself unable to _touch_ Aziraphale, and Aziraphale soothes him with a softer, deeper kiss that finally temporarily settles the wretched thing rattling around in his insides.  
  
“Now then,” Aziraphale murmurs, as he moves from Crowley’s lips to the delicate junction of his jaw and ear and throat, an area sensitive enough to make Crowley’s cock twitch again in interest. “Why don’t we get you properly nude this time?” A snap of his fingers proves that Aziraphale’s gotten a bit impatient to _see_ more of Crowley, because he nearly _always_ prefers to undress Crowley with his own two hands. Crowley’s grateful that the mess he’d made disappears along with his clothes, hopefully _not_ into the neat stack they’ve become on the chair nearby.  
  
Aziraphale, _damn him_ , is still bloody dressed, and Crowley stares pointedly between the two of them and the contrast of pale flesh against creamy velvet and wool. Aziraphale snorts and then murmurs, “Well, all right, I suppose I _did_ promise you a reward.” He sounds so _warm_ and _indulgent_ that the ragged edges of that chasm within Crowley reassert themselves, throbbing in time with his pulse. He tries to push the agony down, for now, promising himself he can properly fall apart _later_ , when he’s alone and not naked beneath Aziraphale.

“Why are you so far _away?_ ” Crowley grouses, once Aziraphale’s miracled away his own clothes. He is, in fact, still seated on top of Crowley, but he seems to get Crowley’s point and presses his body full-length against him. Aziraphale’s hard cock presses down against Crowley’s stomach, trapped between its concave curve and the soft fullness of Aziraphale’s own stomach. Crowley himself is well on his way to full hardness again, and feeling Aziraphale settle his full weight on top of him goes a long way to help both his arousal and the ache inside him. He could _almost_ be okay with this and nothing else for the rest of eternity. (That nasty voice in the back of his mind reminds him that _eternity_ only has a few short years remaining, at this point, which he stubbornly ignores.)

“Is this what you wanted, my dear?” Aziraphale murmurs, his hands sliding up Crowley’s arms to grip his wrists just below where the rope’s already holding him tight. Crowley hisses _yesss_ and arches his back, rubbing his cock against Aziraphale’s deliciously soft stomach. Aziraphale makes a small noise of approval, and they rock together like that for a while, Aziraphale occasionally giving him long, languid kisses that make Crowley whimper with a need that isn’t _only_ sexual. This time, Aziraphale’s the one to spill wetly between them with a ragged gasp, and Crowley _groans_ and winds his legs around his waist, rolling his hips with more urgency until he, too, comes with a broken cry.

Somehow, Aziraphale _knows_ when it’s time to remove the nipple clamps, when the dull ache has tipped over the edge between _pleasure_ and pain and is no longer enjoyable. Crowley hisses as the pressure on his sore, abused nipples is eased up, and Aziraphale quickly soothes them with a warm tongue, gentle and healing. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect Aziraphale was performing a minor miracle in the process, but there’s no tingle of Divinity, so the only miracle here is the skill of Aziraphale’s mouth.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks quietly, once they’re all cleaned up and the clamps have been put away. He hasn’t unbound Crowley yet, which makes him hopeful they aren’t _nearly_ finished. Crowley makes an ambiguous sound and shrugs, and Aziraphale laughs as he sees right through him. “Good. Because I was thinking I ought to fuck you next.”  
  
Crowley swears, and Aziraphale smiles. The angel’s going to be the death of him.

\--------------------

Surprisingly ( _miraculously,_ to the point Crowley suspects Divine Intervention), he manages to hold off on his next breakdown until the following morning. He’d actually _slept the bloody night_ at Aziraphale’s, in his _bed_ , and that’s a whole new level of intimacy he wasn’t prepared for. Aziraphale isn’t a sleeper himself, but he’s still in bed beside Crowley when he wakes up in the morning, a bit groggy and disoriented because on the rare occasions he’d bedded humans he’d _never_ stayed over with them, never really slept anywhere that wasn’t his own bedroom or (on a few occasions, after drinking late into the night) the sofa in the backroom of Aziraphale’s bookshop. Crowley immediately tenses when he realizes where he is and remembers what they’d done (not the _sex_ , that’s familiar enough by now, but the _spooning_ and _Crowley falling asleep in Aziraphale’s arms_ ). Aziraphale stills beside him and slips a bookmark into the aged tome he’d been reading, quietly setting it aside.  
  
“So…” Aziraphale begins, when the silence lingers awkwardly between them for too long. Crowley makes a muffled sound, almost a _groan_ , as he presses his face into Aziraphale’s pillow. (And if he breathes in his angel’s scent in the process, that’s _entirely_ his own business.) Aziraphale’s expectantly quiet for a bit, obviously waiting for Crowley to _say_ something, then he finally sighs when he doesn’t. “Crowley, you know we really ought to talk about this… this _thing_ between us.”

“Nope!” Crowley exclaims brightly, practically hurling himself from the bed, throwing his clothes on in record time. “We absolutely do _not_ have to talk about thisssss--” He doesn’t even know how to describe it, beyond-- “ _arrangement_ ,” he finishes snappishly. When he sneaks a peak of Aziraphale’s expression out of the corner of his eye, it’s almost _sad_. (Crowley absolutely refuses to consider why that might be. It’s not _relevant_ , not _important.)_ “So! Gotta go, temptations to perform, _demonic wiles_ to, uh, produce. We’ll t-- chat later about the Antichrist! _Ciao!_ ” His voice ends a bit on the high side, almost hysterical. He makes it all the way to the Bentley before the tears spill over, and if it weren’t for the low-level sentience his beloved car’s developed over the decades of belonging to a demon and a few of his own demonic miracles, he would have crashed on the way back to his flat. It’s still a near thing.

By the time he actually pulls up in front of his flat, Crowley’s outright hyperventilating. His seat stretches back away from the dash accommodatingly so he can put his head between his knees the way he vaguely remembers the NHS encouraging when someone’s feeling faint. He doesn’t feel like he’s going to _swoon_ so much as vomit, but he supposes it won’t hurt to sit here like this for a bit, tears steadily splashing onto the floor board beneath. His breath comes in shaky gasps, quick and shallow, and he rocks back and forth as he falls to pieces in the driver’s seat of his car.

Whatever it is Aziraphale had been wanting to say, whatever it is he’d wanted to _talk_ about, Crowley is entirely unprepared. That ragged, flighted thing in his chest has spread its wings once more, and he’s helpless to force it back to earth. He is both hopeful and _terrified_ of what the newer soft looks and gentle words might mean for him, for _them_. He doesn’t think he can _bear_ the devastation of hoping for such a thing and being proven wrong.

Crowley isn’t sure how long he sits in his car like that, hunched over and dripping tears like a leaky faucet, but eventually the worst of the terror subsides. Crowley sits up, sits back against his seat, and sighs.  
  
The way he sees it, he has two primary options right now. He can go on and continue being the _coward_ he is, fleeing from any hint of _feelings_ (let alone _love_ , that four-letter word that he’s somewhat accepted within himself but can’t even approach sidelong as something _Aziraphale_ might feel for him). He can put his head down, bury himself in the work (both Hellish and Armageddon-preventing) and pretend he doesn’t know what’s happening. He can treat Aziraphale the way he always did, like a _friend_ and _colleague_ who he just so happens to fuck on occasion. _Or_ , he can drive himself back to Aziraphale’s, storm up the stairs to his flat, and confront his own fear and feelings once and for all.

Crowley swears. Then he blesses. Then he drives to St. James’s Park. He can’t handle being alone with his thoughts right now, and the ducks will do for a decent enough distraction.

\--------------------

Crowley’s slouched on the bench ( _their_ bench, always the same bench) and muttering vague insults in the direction of the ducks that are _asleep_ on the bloody water and therefore no distraction at all, when Aziraphale finds him. He sinks further down onto the bench, shoulders up ‘round his ears, and mutters something between a greeting and a question. Aziraphale smiles, a bit pained.  
  
“You’re not nearly as _wily_ or unpredictable as you think, Crowley. May I join you?” And of course he has to be _polite_ , even now, even when Crowley had run out on him. Crowley gives a twitch, a jerky shrug of one shoulder, and Aziraphale murmurs a _thank you_ , taking it as the invitation it is. He seats himself primly as always, looking (if possible) even _stiffer_ in the spine than usual. Crowley’s heart drops somewhere around his feet. He feels lower than the days he crawled on his belly. How is it he can be _so bad_ at this?

Luckily, Aziraphale is ever the brave one, of the two of them (though he’d never agree with Crowley if he said it aloud). He breaks the silence before it can settle too heavily and foreboding between them. More importantly, he breaks it before Crowley can get too caught up in his own _self-loathing_ spiral.  
  
“Crowley, we should talk. About… _this_. About us.” Aziraphale sounds… _tired_ , as if he feels every one of his 6,000+ years right now, talking to Crowley about their relationship. Crowley hunches down even further, like he can sink right into the bench and disappear if he slumps down low enough. But he murmurs a quiet _right_ , at least, because he may be a coward and a demon and a right bastard but even _he_ has limits. Aziraphale glances over to him, still looking _pained_ , before turning his gaze determinedly forward, as if avoiding looking at Crowley directly will make it easier to say what he needs to say. (And maybe it will, _fuck_ , Crowley’s sure he knows where this is going now.)

“I can’t keep _doing_ this, Crowley.” _Fuck_ , Crowley thinks, and he thought he’d _known_ pain before, but something new and raw and weeping has torn itself open inside him. He clenches his hands into fists by his sides and swallows down the sob that threatens to claw its way free from his throat. The _least_ he can do for Aziraphale is take it like a… not a _man_ , but a man-shaped being. A demon.  
  
“So let’s just… have it out in the open, then,” Aziraphale is saying, and Crowley blinks hard a few times as the image of the duck pond swims before his eyes. He’s _crying_ already, damn it.  
  
“Right,” Crowley manages, thickly, the tears threatening to swell his throat shut altogether. “This the part where I tell you I’ve been in love with you for ages and you tell me you just want to be friends, then?” He means to sound _bitter_ , resigned, but there’s a note of _imploring_ there that snuck in somewhere along the way.  
  
Aziraphale draws in his breath audibly and turns to face him, lips parted. “You… what?”  
  
Crowley hisses and drags his sunglasses off so he can dash his tears away with a sleeve, as if that’ll _hide_ what a mess he is right now, what a mess he is _period_. Aziraphale grabs his arm fast before he can quite complete the maneuver though, and he looks almost _stricken_.  
  
“Crowley? Oh… Oh, my _darling_.” This time, when something fractures within Crowley, he’s suffused with _hope and relief and pleasepleaseplease give me this one thing_ so powerful it leaves him light-headed, swaying and wide-eyed in his seat. Aziraphale seems to know just the remedy for that, though. Before Crowley can even begin to topple from his seat, Aziraphale’s drawn him up tight in his arms and is murmuring endearments, _love_ , everything he’d said to Crowley during aftercare and _more_ , everything Crowley had grieved and hoped for.

Crowley is embarrassed to realize his shoulders are shaking, and he’s absolutely _sobbing_ with the full force of his suppressed emotions as they crash over him, over and over. Aziraphale just clutches him all the tighter, murmurs apologies and reassurances and _I’m here now, my dear. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize, I couldn’t see past my own insecurities. Oh, I love you so much, Crowley. I’m so sorry. I’m here now._ _I’m never leaving again._ He isn’t sure how long they sit like that, him held almost bone-crushingly, bruisingly tight while Aziraphale strokes his hair and his back and shushes him. He even _rocks_ back and forth, and eventually, bit by bit, Crowley’s able to pull himself back together again.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, when he finally has the wherewithal to manage it, and Aziraphale _giggles_ , the way he does when they’ve had a bit too much to drink and he’s gone a little loopy, even a little punchy. That’s enough to startle a rough, ragged laugh from Crowley, and they cling tight to each other as the tremors shake through them both. By the time they’re finished, they’re both… okay. Or at least as okay as they can be. After all, Armageddon is yet to come.

\--------------------

The end of the world isn’t quite _anticlimactic_ so much as it is an enormous relief when it’s over. They’re both still high on the adrenaline of facing down _Satan himself_. They hold hands on the bus, tentatively but each certain in the knowledge that the other feels the same way. Crowley reminds Aziraphale they’re on their own side now more than ever, and he’s sure he doesn’t imagine the look of _relief_ on Aziraphale’s face when he processes that.

They end up back at Crowley’s flat, and Crowley’s halfway to taking Aziraphale apart with his forked tongue when Aziraphale bolts upright, nearly kneeling Crowley in the jaw as he shouts _I’ve got it!_ Crowley’s a bit cross to have had the _expert_ blowjob he’d been giving interrupted, and even more so that Aziraphale had been thinking about anything _other_ than said blowjob, but Aziraphale manages to soothe him with a couple well-placed words and better-placed teeth against his throat. He explains his plan to Crowley as he’s jerking him off, and it shouldn’t be _as hot as it is_ , but Crowley comes with a shout all the same.

It’s not long after, when Crowley’s had the chance to recover from his climax, that they test Aziraphale’s plan out. They meld into one, their celestial and occult essences brushing against one another in passing as they make the switch. It’s the single most intimate, _erotic_ thing Crowley’s ever experienced in his life. When they slam into each other’s bodies its with a pair of earth-shattering orgasms, so Crowley’s sure he’s not alone in that. (Although it is both _very_ strange and _highly enlightening_ to learn what it feels like to come as Aziraphale. So enlightening that they go a few rounds in each other’s bodies just because they can.) In the end, it feels a bit too weird to try to settle in for the night in a body that’s both _not his_ and clearly unused to sleeping, so they swap back so Crowley can get some rest. (And he makes a note to himself as he starts to drift off that he _really_ ought to introduce Aziraphale to the wonders of sleep.)

Things the next day go off without a hitch, relatively speaking. Crowley-as-Aziraphale has a moment where he _desperately_ wants to rip Gabriel’s head clean off his shoulders, but guaranteeing Aziraphale’s safety is far more important than any form of justice (however justified). It’s still worth it, though, to breathe out Hellfire at the absolute _wankers_ , which has the added benefit of making Aziraphale look like a consummate badass.  
  
It’s both a relief and, curiously, almost disappointing to be back in his own body. But he feels _lighter_ than he has for a while, and Aziraphale is almost _radiant_ in his own elation. It’s almost too easy to _tempt_ him to a spot of lunch, and Aziraphale seems just as glad to accept the temptation as Crowley is to offer it. And while it isn’t their first time dining at the Ritz, or arguably even their first time going on a date, it is the first time they are there with one another, on the same page, fully and completely. The perfect end to one chapter of their life and beginning of the next. And Crowley cannot wait to see what’s next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An enormous thank you to the Big Bang moderators, to my betas & artist & banner artist, and to all the wonderful people I've met through participating in the Big Bang just for being who you are.
> 
> As always, comments are my lifeblood. 
> 
> Come follow me on tumblr at [!](https://azcrowleyfell.tumblr.com/)


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